28

I drive, too quickly, down our street, checking my rearview mirror to see if I’ve been followed.

I’m almost certain Buck will remain with Mia, comforting the poor woman. She is a mess, that’s for sure. Good riddance. I turn my blinker on to take a left at the corner, pausing for a moment to stare into the Boones’ now dark cottage. I guess the party is over for tonight. I wonder if Greg lost at euchre again. If I had more time, I would go inside and have a little talk, or something, with Greg and Doris. Perhaps demonstrate to them the trouble you can get into when you’re a gossipy nosy neighbor. Unfortunately, they will need to learn their lesson when we’re all back in Columbus.

I take a left onto Second Street and drive to the old stately inn. We stayed here once with the kids, before we were owners. It’s a passable place to stay for some people, once you get past the musty smell. I will not be a guest. I just need to collect my things. I park in a spot out front labeled “check-in only” and turn off the car. As I step outside, I look around, checking my surroundings. The lake is behind me, just beyond the expanse of green lawn that belongs to the inn. A large stone fountain gurgles water, making an oddly eerie sound in the otherwise silent night. Across the street is the beginning of the park, and farther down, I see the outline of the boathouse and the dock. It is very dark, very still out here.

There is no one else around; I’m certain I haven’t been followed as I make my way up the steps and into the lobby. Directly across from me behind a large wooden desk with a sign that says Reception, a bored teenage boy, cheeks covered with acne and sallow-looking, stifles a yawn and says, “Hello. Are you checking in?”

His lack of tension makes me realize I’ve been holding my shoulders tight and I smile and relax a bit. “Hello, son. Some friends of mine kindly dropped off my suitcase and belongings here, but I’m afraid I can’t spend the night,” I say. I am using my best and friendliest face, my most polite words. I am imitating the waiter from tonight. I am overly kind.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Okay, then, do you want your stuff?” the boy asks. He is wearing a name tag that says “Scott.” The name tag is gold and shiny. The word is printed in black.

“Please, yes, Scott,” I say. I’m friendly. Just a patient, weary traveler who needs his shit now, Scott.

“Your name? And I need to see some identification, too,” Scott says.

I wonder how many people drive up to a hotel at 1:00 a.m. and try to retrieve a stranger’s things. In Lakeside? I suspect the risk is low, but Scott is only doing his job. I tamp down my brewing impatience and slide my driver’s license over to him.

“Be right back,” he says, barely glancing at the license. I collect it and slip it back into my wallet. I realize I have not a dime to tip this kid, nor do I have a working credit card for gas. This is not the best scenario as I must hurry back to Columbus. I look around for a camera, but of course I don’t see any. Lakeside Inn is a trusting, folksy place devoid of crime and suspicion, apparently. Slowly I walk around the counter, and see what must be the cash drawer, slightly ajar, just in front of where Scott had been sitting.

I reach over, open the drawer, and extract all of the twenty dollar bills and the one fifty dollar bill in there, shoving them into my front pocket. I push the drawer closed and return to my original place in front of the reception desk, making sure my face is still kind, and friendly.

Only once I’m safely back in position on the customer’s side of the desk do I realize I should have stolen his tip. Oh, well. Poor kid will just have to survive on my smile.

“Here we are, Mr. Strom,” Scott says, appearing through the same door he’d disappeared through a moment before, now rolling out a luggage cart containing my suitcase and briefcase. “This is your stuff, right?”

“It is. Thank you, son,” I say as he pushes the cart around to my side of the desk. I grab my suitcase, yank up the handle, slide my briefcase on top and, nodding to the helpful boy, roll quickly to the door.

“Sir, are you sure you won’t be checking in? There’s still a room reserved for you.” Scott calls to me as I am almost through the door.

“No, son, change of plans. But thank you. Have a good night,” I say, with another big smile for the lad. I feel a little terrible he will be accused of stealing the money in his drawer, and no doubt be fired. But it’s a good life lesson. He should have been more careful, should have locked that cash drawer before he left his post. You just never know who you’re dealing with, despite appearances.

As I roll my bags to my car I realize I should check and make sure Mia put everything back in my suitcase, but I’ll have to do that once I arrive back home. I pop the trunk, shove the briefcase and suitcase inside, fight the urge to look around again, and quickly climb into the car. I lock the doors, turn the key in the ignition. Before pulling away from the curb, I consider my options. What I know I should do, what I want to do, is start driving, head for Port Clinton, and then the highway to take me back home. But another part of me wants to circle back to my cottage, have what you might call the final word with Buck and my wife. That is what Buck will expect, I’m sure, especially if Scott tips him off that I’m not checking in.

Maybe I’ll just drive by the cottage one last time, you know, on my way out of the gates. It will give me time to think things over, although glancing at my gas gauge, I know I don’t have much time to think without filling up. As I drive down Second Street heading toward my cottage, I smile remembering my petty theft. If I’m lucky, Scott won’t check the cash drawer for the rest of the evening and whoever replaces him on the morning shift will assume Scott took the cash. He is an untrustworthy teenager, after all.

If I’m unlucky and Scott notices the missing twenties, surely he won’t think of the kind stranger, dressed nicely, obviously successful and from the city. No, it would have had to be someone else, earlier in the night. I was nice to him, although I didn’t tip him. If I had taken the cash, surely I would have tipped him, he’d reason.

Unless Buck has told him things about me, spreading more rumors darkening my name. I will need to get in front of Buck and his lies. I drive slowly around the corner at the Boones’ cottage. It’s dark and unmoving, as it should be at this time of night. In contrast, across the street, my cottage is awash in light. There are two squad cars parked in my driveway and through the brightly lit windows I see too many people walking around inside my family room. I spot Mia through the window, sitting on the couch, my couch, drinking a cup of tea, feeling all smug and secure. She’s surrounded by cops, telling the little sob story of her unhappy life. Poor little crumpled, gray Mia. Her husband was such a bad man. He gave her a big house, two healthy boys, a life of leisure beyond most people’s wildest dreams.

I touch the shiny pen I placed on the passenger seat. It’s cool, like my wife.

Unlike me, Mia is a spoiled brat who got everything she wanted, everything she deserved. I put the pen in my pocket, turn off the headlights and park one house down from ours on the same side of the street. There aren’t many streetlights in Lakeside, none near our cottage. The stars are obscured by clouds. It’s dark, very dark on our street. Mia complains about that, but I am a creature of the shadows. I’m comfortable here, as you know.

I spot my target near his precious strawberry garden, the very thing that caused all of this. Buck has let his guard down because the cops, country guys who should be home banging their wives or swilling moonshine, are protecting her. One of the officers even sports a soul patch on his chin, so three years ago. I turn my attention back to Buck. Buck’s retreated to the garden, my garden, letting the authorities comfort my gray blob of a wife. He’s such a loser. It’s so easy.

I creep into my yard undetected. He doesn’t even know what’s hit him from behind, until I do, my rage overpowering his supposed training. I have him in a choke hold. Buck fights like the tough guy I know he is, but I’m stronger. He skids the heel of his shoe down my shin, but he’s wearing tennis shoes, lame. I squeeze his neck tighter, hear him gasping for breath. I pull him to the ground behind the strawberries and straddle his chest. I punch him in his pretty face, direct contact with that dimple, that perfect jaw. The sound is thick, satisfying.

My hand stings. I love it. It makes me feel alive. I kick him in the side, once. I hope to crack a rib. That should keep him from humping my wife for a while. I stand above him. He rolls to his side, tries to stand but I’m not letting that happen. My shoes are dress shoes, with a pointed toe. I aim at his temple, then his ribs, and I kick his throat. He moans and then is still. Take that, tough guy. I’m done here. I won’t kill him. No, that would be too easy. I feel the heavy pen in my pocket, imagine it sticking out of his neck, piercing his artery. I like the image, but I want him alive. I will make him pay for what he’s done to me, slowly, over time. But I assure you he will pay for ruining my life, for stealing my wife. When he least expects it, I’ll get my revenge.

I hear voices and duck behind the strawberry bed. The cops are heading out, walking to their cars. The idiots are going to leave Mia alone, in our house. I cover my mouth with my hand; my white smile could give me away. I’m like a shark, lurking in the depths, waiting to strike.

The two police cruisers flip on their headlights and pull away.

I turn toward the cottage. Mia stands in the window, staring into the backyard. It’s almost as if she knows I’m here. I begin to wave. She’s not looking for me, though.

At my feet, Buck moans. So much for special ops guys. Ha.

I kick him in the ribs. “Shut up,” I say. My voice is firm, commanding. I really don’t have time for this garden gnome. I need to rescue my wife, from herself, from this story she’s concocted in her mind. Poor woman.

“Hello, Mia,” I whisper, looking toward the brilliantly lit cottage. “Don’t worry. I’m home.”

I take a step toward the house as a hand clamps on my ankle. Fucking Buck. What is his problem? This time, I yank my foot out of his grip and kick him in the head. There’s a satisfactory thud, and blood flows out of his ear. It would be so easy to off him, I think, squeezing the pen in my pocket. But I need to get to Mia.

I run to the back door, kick it open. I told you the lock was ridiculous. That was easy, and I’m definitely not special ops.

Mia screams from the other room. She’s going to be so happy to see me.

I hurry through the kitchen, to the family room. She’s running to the front door. I grab her hair, stopping her dead in her tracks. She stumbles back, her hand grabs mine and she spins around, a puppet in my hands. What now, little Mia?

It takes me a moment to see the knife. She slashes at me with the fury of a feral cat. She comes close to my hand and I release her hair.

Mia is shaking, the knife is barely capable of slicing an apple, but she points it at me, acting heroic. “Get out of here, Paul. I’ve pushed the panic button. Help is on the way. And Buck is just outside.”

“Buck is a little busy with the strawberries right now, poor guy.” I smile as Mia’s eyes get larger.

“What have you done to him?” she hisses.

“Nothing he didn’t deserve. But let’s talk about us, shall we?” I smile. I say, “Panic button. Really? What panic button, honey? You really must be losing your mind. There is no panic button. That’s for the movies. Besides, you couldn’t have anything like that, not without me knowing about it. You have nothing without me. You are nothing without me.” My hand is throbbing from punching Buck. I like that.

“Get out of here, Paul. I’m serious. You don’t want to be caught breaking in here.” Mia’s little knife is wobbling again. It’s cute.

“Mia, this is my cottage, our cottage. We own it so I couldn’t possibly break in. I think you’ve forgotten how many good memories we’ve made here, even in one short year. Remember the champagne toast on our new screened porch when we first bought this place, and how happy we were?” I’m smiling, Mia is not.

“And all the while you were poisoning me,” she says, shaking her head.

“Oh, honey, don’t be silly,” I say. I haven’t been poisoning her the entire time, silly woman. “Come here. Let me give you a hug. You seem so distraught. You’re lost without me.” I take a step toward my wife and she backs into the corner by the front door, slashing the air between us with her little cheese knife. Perhaps I’ll teach her a little lesson.

It’s at that moment, as we’re studying each other, contemplating our next moves, that I hear sirens. The sound is faint but growing louder. Definitely coming toward us.

Mia must hear her rescuers in the distance and finally manages a smile, possibly the most genuine smile of the day. It’s the half-moon kind of smile, like the one she gave me this morning, like she gave me when we first dated, a smile of love. But then her face falls, as if that smile is not for me, not anymore. “Wrong, Paul. I am much more than you. And I’m so much better off without you.” Her ridiculous paring knife is clutched in her hand pointed at me. It would be so easy to grab it, turn the blade toward her, plunge it into her traitorous chest.

The sirens are closing in. She does have a fucking panic button. Now I must decide. Finish what I started with the poison, or get out before the Keystone Cops arrive, grab my kids and start over. Because clearly, she hasn’t thought of everything. Our kids, our precious boys, are at home asleep. Blissfully unaware of all of this strife, like little lambs just waiting for their shepherd to save them.

Red and blue flashes are lighting up the street. I’ve got to get out of here.

“This isn’t over, Mia, but for now, good night, honey. Sleep tight. We’ll see each other again soon. Perhaps when you least expect it,” I say before turning and running out the back door, through the yard to my car. The cops drive past me as I sit low in my front seat, flying into our driveway at speeds that could only be considered excessive. You’d think there was an actual crime taking place inside. Instead they’ll find a crazy woman huddled by the front door with a tiny knife, and eventually, a former special ops guy knocked out by his precious strawberry plants. Losers. Both of them.

My poor little wife. She thinks she is so clever. Outsmart Paul Strom? Never.

I push the gas and drive by quickly. Decision made. I find myself constantly checking my mirrors, rearview and side, until I escape through the Lakeside gate.

I know I’m driving too fast, even if all of the cops from this entire little township are busy at my cottage for now, and I pull my foot back from the gas pedal. I need to conserve fuel until I make it to a bigger town where there will be an open gas station. It would not be prudent to run out of gas somewhere in the middle of these dark country roads tonight. I have too much more to take care of for that.